


Single Step

by sakrathehedgie



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: BEHOLD, Multi, the most original idea ever, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-04 12:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakrathehedgie/pseuds/sakrathehedgie
Summary: Joanne wakes in a field she didn't recognize in robes she didn't remember owning and weapons she didn't know that she could use. She quickly finds herself in the care of the Shepherds, and begins her quest to discover her lost memories, along with why the name "The Mad Mage" haunts her. A retelling of Awakening told in a series of one-shots.





	1. Awoken

She woke up with nothing but a sword, a tome, and a body that ached like the seven hells.

After a moment of rubbing her eyes and muttering obscenities to herself, she pushed herself up and glanced around where she had fallen. Her body screamed with each movement, and her head pounded harder than a festival drum, but she managed to push past the pain to observe her environment. A field? Now what on earth was she doing there?

... Where was she _supposed_ to be?

... Who even _was_ she?

She suddenly sprung to her feet, legs quaking, and set off to follow a path nearby. She had to find a town. Something, anything, any semblance of civilization out in that expanse of grass. Being alone, with little surrounding cover, and gods-damn _amnesia_ caused her heart to thump as hard as her head. Amnesia didn't seem to get rid of the idea that "being exposed outside makes for an easy target."

Thumbing the pages of her Thunder tome, she walked. Walked and thought. She was an adult; certainly someone in a nearby town would know who she was or what happened to her or why her body felt like it had just been through a taffy puller. A name, at least. She needed to know her own name.

Her appearance didn't seem like something that would go unnoticed. Dressed in some black-and-purple cloak and with short, wispy, dull blue hair that fell in her face, she didn't exactly seem like the average villager. Or did she? No, no, something in her gut told her that she looked quite abnormal.

Especially with that six-eyed mark on her right hand. Must be a story behind that one.

The second she started hearing screaming, she broke out into a sprint, spotting columns of smoke rising into the air just moments later. Seeing the black clouds billowing into the air stabbed her heart with raw, unadulterated fear--but there were clearly people in trouble. She needed to help them!

When she finally approached the burning town, she immediately wanted to take that sword and bash her skull in with it.  
Brigands. Of _course_ it was brigands. Her rush of sudden loathing tipped her off that that was _far_ from the first time she had met brigands. And, as she raised her tome, far from the first time she's _killed_ brigands.

Holding her spell tome in one hand, she approached the group hounding a couple travelling caravans.

"Excuse me, gentlemen." Her curt voice cut through the screams of the poor merchant being held by his collar, and the group of brigands turned their heads towards her. The merchant took the distraction and wriggled his way free of the fighter holding him.

A man dressed in loose robes--she recognized him as a dark mage--approached her, some predatory grin on his face that could make milk turn. "An' jus' what do we 'ave 'ere?"

She merely blinked at him. "I advise that you all _leave."_

"An' what are ya gonna do if we don't, ah?" The dark mage reached into his robe and began to pull out a purple tome, but before he could even get it out into the open, a crack of lighting struck him straight through the chest. He flew back, leaving only a few charred fabric fragments and the stench of burning flesh.

She staggered back, fingers flecked with static. The glowing rings around her disappeared as the spell's power finally died down. That was too strong for a simple Thunder spell. It should have merely singed his hair, maybe blown him back a bit, just a tough show to tell them "get out or else."

But she killed him with _one hit._

Just how strong _was_ she?

That question was answered when the brigands finally got over their shock and drew their weapons. All at once, numbers, strengths, weaknesses, and far too much other information bombarded her at once, and yet it felt strangely normal.

One was a simple mercenary, strong attack and agility but weak magic resistance. A cast of Thunder, and he dropped like a rock. A fighter, great attack, average defense, weak magic resistance. He went down as easily as the first. An archer, strong attack, weak defense, and an inability to attack anything at close range.

A silver blade ran straight through him, and he collapsed in a crimson heap.

The man before her emanated authority, with a billowing cape, rippling muscles, and stark cobalt hair. He expertly spun the sword in his hand before stabbing it into the ground.

"You all right?" he asked. She could hear, close by, the screams of a man being stabbed, and only after a heavy _flump_ did she bow slightly.

"Yes, thanks." The man looked familiar to her. They must have met somewhere, right? Surely he would know something about her forgotten memories! "Excuse me, but have we met before?"

The man raised an eyebrow as a blonde girl with fan-like pigtails rushed up next to him. "Sorry, but I don't believe I've ever seen you before."

The hope inside her chest deflated like a popped bag. "Oh. Forgive me, then."

"Milord, the brigand leader is up ahead." An imposing man, whose shining armor matched his horse's, rode up next to the blonde. The blue-haired man turned to him and nodded.

"Right. We'll take him down."

He turned back to her, yanking his sword out of the ground. "You look like you can hoold your own. Could we ask for your help in dealing with the rest of these brigands?"

She held her tome with both hands, a sudden burst of memory surfacing in her mind, and smiled at the man.

"But of course. My name is Joanne. And I'm afraid that's all I am capable of telling you. I seem to have forgotten everything else. A pleasure to meet you."


	2. Risen

Joanne was quickly growing attached to the three Shephards.

Chrom was a tad intimidating but very welcoming man. He was the type of man that one could have easy conversation with. Alert at all times, and yet not distrustful of complete strangers like Joanne herself. Hands were always at his side, never on the hilt of his sword--not unless there was a clear threat, of course. His eyes lit up whenever he talked about Lissa and Frederick. He was more than willing to help Joanne recover her lost memories, and thus began their trip to the capital of the country--which she found out was called Ylisse, and its capital Ylisstol. He was rather humble, she noted--he was never afraid to give people like Marth the credit they deserve for their work.

Lissa was his sibling foil. She was the playful to his serious, the immaturity to his stoicness, the pride to his humility. Yet, Lissa was just as accepting of Joanne as Chrom had been, despite Frederick's atempts to warn them of possible deception. She asked Joanne questions as they walked (in-between comments about her feet hurting), and sadly, Joanne was only able to answer few of her questions. Lissa, green-faced, offered Joanne the rest of her bear meat dinner, which pushed her rather high on Joanne's favored list. Joanne giggled when she saw how smitten Lissa was with Marth, and she gasped and ran at her when a dead human figure came lumbering towards her.

Frederick was the epitome of serious, the poster child of poise, the patron saint of killjoy. He was wary of Joanne from the start, doubting the legitimacy of her story the moment it flew from her lips. Yet, Joanne could not find it in herself to be upset about it in the slightest. Frederick was just trying to protect those he served, after all. Seeing his care and worry for his masters warmed Joanne's heart. It was the first genuine act of love that Joanne could remember. Despite his warnings, Frederick did not treat Joanne like an enemy, what with feeding her and allowing her to sleep near his masters. She would have to tell him "thank you" later.

The camp they set up jogged a few more senses from her memory. The delicious smell of roasting bear caused Joanne's mouth to water, and she could vaguely recall a younger Joanne sitting at an oak table and joyously tearing apart cooked bear with her tiny teeth. The warm feelings of that memory helped to balance out the chilling fear she felt when she looked at the fire. Something in the licking flames and the sparking smoke put her on edge, and it made attempting to sleep rather difficult. Something awful happened to her involving fire. She just wish she knew what it was.

Lissa's screams woke her that night, and suddenly, the whole forest was ablaze. All Joanne wanted to do was curl into a ball in the hopes that her blood would defrost, but Frederick pulled her to her feet, narrowly saving her from some creature's ax. Purple smoke hissed in her direction, and upon killing it with her Thunder tome, it completely dissolved into a mass of dark purple mist.

It was horribly, horribly wrong.

Help from another Shephard, Sully, and the "archest of archers" Virion, eradicated the immediate threat rather quickly. Joanne only heard Sully threatening to kick Virion in the face if he did not stop flirting with her, and Joanne instantly knew she was going to love Sully. Virion, however, she would have to be wary of.

'Wary' was how she felt about the supposed Marth, as well. Lissa claimed he fell out of the sky and rescued her from the rotting corpses that had been lumbering towards her. He cut down all the others like it was his birthright. Yet, the moment the fighting ceased, Marth spouted a few cryptic words before leaving. The mystery coming off of him was almost palpable, matched only by Joanne's quickly-intensifying curiosity.

She wondered if her old life was filled with mysteries like him.


	3. Strategy

Joanne didn't fully understand her abilities.

In the Shephard's garrison, she took a good look at herself, just as she had those brigands she first encountered. In her past life, she must have practiced magic since childhood to achieve that level of power. Yet, her defense and luck appeared to be rather... sub par. Actually it was like she could be knocked over with a mild breeze. She bit the inside of her cheek. She'd have to work on that.

Her body was covered in scars--burn scars. Patches of skin along her arms and torso had previously been burnt away, leaving pink skin in its place. Some hurt to touch. Some looked older than time. What had happened to her? She wracked her brain for an answer, but everything was muddied and unclear like swamp water.

Despite her amnesia, upon seeing her barking orders at the Shepherds when the Risen (as Frederick called them) attacked, Chrom had placed Joanne in charge of tactics as the Shepherds moved forward to a place called Regna Ferox. She had accepted the position with a bow and a smile, but internally, she was screaming. The fate of the army rested in her hands--no, the fate of Ylisse. If they didn't manage to secure an alliance with the Feroxi, then the neighboring country of Plegia would be able to overtake Ylisse.

Ylissean lives. Ylisse itself. The lives of the Shepherds. All of them relied on Joanne to protect them.

She wanted to vomit.

There were, fortunately, tactics books in the garrison, and Joanne quickly snatched them up and began to read. Immediately she was immersed, her mind whirling in a hurricane to come up with plans.

Sully was strong and fast, and could travel farther on her horse. Her physical defense wasn't great, however, and her magical resistance was even worse. She belonged on the front line, fighting other physical attackers. Joanne often placed her next to Frederick or Stahl so that the horseriders could assist each other. It helped especially that Sully was extremely protective of the other Shepherds, and if she noticed one of her comrades in trouble, more than one body would be stuck to her lance. Stahl was average--that seemed to be very well-known among the Shepherds. Most of him was just... average. But his strength and defense were rather good, and when put next to Frederick and Sully, he was great at finishing off enemies that everyone else already weakened. Quick and sufficient.

Others, too, clicked into place. Virion would stay far back and out of enemy range, often blocked from opponents by another close-range fighter. Miriel would do the same, as while her magical power was fine, just a couple hits could strike her down. Often Vaike would be next to her, his ax powerful enough to keep her back protected. Lissa joined them in staying behind and out of direct enemy fire, instead rushing forward to heal her fellow Shepherds and giving them the strength to finish off their opponents. Kellam was slow, but bulky and strong, leaving him as one of the frontline fighters. Sumia was clumsy on her feet but deadly on a pegasus, and she was paired with Chrom to make sure he didn't get himself killed. Joanne and Chrom would stick to the middle, staying close to and assisting their comrades.

Joanne felt at home with readying tactics. It was meeting an old friend, or slipping on a favorite glove. Taking the Shepherds up the northern road or the Feroxi longfort was nervewracking, but ultimately proved to be successful. Joanne grabbed the reigns in an iron grip, shouting orders and screaming names. The battlefield was hers to mold as she saw fit.

Sometimes, she saw the Feroxi back away from her. They mumbled something incomprehensible, but after a few moments, they rushed at her with all they had. The dying words on their lips caught Joanne's attention:

"The Mad Mage."

Joanne used magic, certainly, but she was no mage. Just a tactician. And she was fairly certain she wasn't mad, thank you! But even as Chrom and Khan Flavia spoke, she ran through the words over and over again like she was trying to get a deep stain out of her robes. Something about that name was vaguely familiar, but cold dread flowered in her stomach when she thought of it. Perhaps there was a very good reason for that.

Whoever this "Mad Mage" was, they were connected to her somehow.

Maybe it was time to do a bit of inquiring.


	4. Ferox

The Feroxi were loud, aggressive, impulsive, and crass.

It was amazing.

The tournament Flavia had signed the Shepherds up for began the day after tomorrow, and so the Shepherds were treated as guests of Regna Ferox. Joanne slept in the same quarters as the other women, and awoke the next morning to the smell of smoking meat that softened the biting chill in the air. She stumbled like a drunken Risen towards the kitchen, mouth watering and mind set solely on food.

Other warriors wandered the halls of Arena Ferox, carrying swords and axes and hammers and lances over their shoulders. Many bumped each other roughly, some with clear distaste in their eyes, while others breaking out into laughter. Very few clerics milled around; perhaps Feroxi warriors were expected to be able to patch their own wounds. Once Joanne saw past the smell of roasting boar and venison, she could feel the excitement in the air. Warriors spoke animatedly to each other, gesturing wildly with their weapons and detailing just where and when they'll decapitate their enemy. The Feroxi were certainly people of the battlefield.

Though Joanne was forbidden from accessing the kitchens, some of the chefs allowed her the first pick of dried jerky. The mess hall was packed with fighters of all shades, including some early-rising Shepherds. She sat at end of their table, fidgeting with the pages of her magic tome, before another woman sat next to her and asked her if she was Khan Flavia's newest champion.

Quickly Joanne discovered that the pink-haired, scantily-clad dancer sat next to her was named Olivia, and she was rather close with the West Khan, Basilio. Despite Olivia's initial hesitation, she and Joanne quickly hit it off, talking of armies and skills and swordfighting and snow and seasons and tournaments and memories. Joanne offered Olivia some of her jerky, but Olivia had politely declined. (More for Joanne, then!) Before they parted for the day, Olivia had wished Joanne the best at the tournament the next day - "Don't die, okay?"

"The Mad Mage" garnered a variety of responses from the Feroxi as Joanne wandered the halls of Arena Ferox. No one seemed to really know who they were. Some say that he was a young wizard who specialized in brewing poisonous vulneraries. Others said that she was an old crone who kept a small army of lizards as pets. One fighter said that he was just a simple man who ran a tome and book store, and that rumors spun out of control, coining the term "The Mad Mage" after a number of years.

Only one person--a small servant whose brow was deeply set into his face and eyes were filled with exhaustion--gave her any information of value.

"Don't know much about the Mage themself, but I know a woman named Ariadne was 'round 'em a lot."

A name. A name! Ariadne. The name struck something in Joanne's heart, though she couldn't tell why. Just hearing the name, however, made her smile.

Joanne had just hit the training room when she caught a familiar flash of blue.

"Marth?"

Marth spun around, his sword out and pointed towards Joanne's throat. She jumped back, but quickly furrowed her brow in annoyance.

"Well, that's just rude. If this is how you say 'hello,' I'd hate to see how you say 'I like you.'"

Marth paused for a second, and he sheathed his sword. "My apologies. You merely startled me. I am afraid I must take my leave, now."

Joanne stepped in front of Marth, one arm holding her book to her chest and the other on her hip. "Now hold on, what exactly are you doing here? Last we saw you, you were spouting some bull-hock about 'preludes,' and just up and left after falling out of the sky with those Risen. Something as completely bizarre as that requires a bit of explanation, wouldn't you agree?"

Marth's disposition was stiff and stoic; he reminded her of Frederick in some aspects. Although his figure was slim, he held himself high and proud. Joanne couldn't see his face behind the mask, but the mask itself was of high-quality metal, and in the shape of a butterfly. Perhaps Marth was a person of status.

He turned away from her. "I cannot explain now. Just know that you will not see the last of those Risen for some time. As for what I am doing here..." He turned back; Joanne realized that he was just an inch or so taller than her. "I have heard that you are the East Khan's champions."

"Indeed we are. Have you come to watch?"

"No. I have come to fight for the West Khan. We shall be meeting each other on the battlefield come tomorrow."

Joanne sputtered in shock. "What? Why are you fighting for Khan Basilio? You saved us from the Risen a few days ago, and now you fight to kill us? Just"--Joanne stepped forward, shoving her nose close to Marth's--"who _are_ you?"

Marth did not flinch, but calmly stepped back from Joanne. "As I told you before, I cannot explain. You will just have to trust me."

Before Joanne could interrogate him further, he pushed past her and walked out of the training room. Joanne huffed and pushed strands of hair from her face (it didn't work). At least she garnered _some_ new information.

Marth's eyes were a beautiful dark blue. Much like Chrom's.


	5. Ggynophobia

If Lon'qu kept avoiding her like this, Joanne was going to run out of figs to throw.

After defeating Marth, Basilio had given them Lon'qu, the former champion, to fight for the Shepherds. And Lon'qu had made it abundantly clear that he did not like women. His pupils would dilate, his body would tense, and he'd bark at whatever female was in his vicinity to "get back!" Normally, such a thing wouldn't bother Joanne; she'd be happy to keep her distance and make sure that both of them were at a comfortable distance.

But Joanne was the tactician. She _had_ to talk to him face-to-face.

Thus, a plethora of awkward and frustrating conversations ensued, with Joanne trying to get close to Lon'qu and Lon'qu wanting absolutely nothing to do with Joanne.

So Joanne decided to come up with a little plan to help Lon'qu with his phobia of women.

The entire way back to Ylisse, Joanne sparred with Lon'qu, and the moment he refused to draw his sword, she went for long-range attacks via figs. He didn't appreciate that too much. (Especially when Joanne attacked him in his sleep. He _really_ didn't appreciate that.)

Joanne grabbed a few books on the way back, and one heavily detailed different fears, including the fear of women. It appeared that, most often, the fear of women was formed thanks to some traumatic event (or events) involving women in the past. And, if this book was to be trusted, one of the best ways to overcome a strong fear was distraction and exposure.

So she continued to throw figs at him. She tilted her head curiously and followed him around. She feigned innocence whenever he accused her of anything. She poked him in the ribs with her pen. She bombarded him with questions about Regna Ferox (granted, her questions about Olivia were genuine questions). Anything and everything she did to Lon'qu was meant to make him see her as an annoyance rather than a woman.

Though, she did have to wonder why he had such a severe fear of women. What happened to him to make him so afraid that he could barely stand within the same room as another female?

Well, that wasn't Joanne's business. Everyone had their secrets. It only became her business when said secrets could jeopardize the battle plans she had set up.

She had to admit, she made herself look rather silly while enacting her plan. After all, most people didn't follow around their myrmidons with figs and childlike looks. Once, she managed to make Lon'qu laugh (even if it was at her). It was soft and rough, but it was genuine amusement. It brought a smile to her lips. 

Joanne would make herself seem as silly as a court jester if she could make Lon'qu laugh again.


	6. Ricken

Joanne and Ricken clicked the moment they met.

Chrom had refused to let Ricken join the mission to rescue Maribelle, but Ricken ignored him and went to rescue Maribelle himself. Joanne had found Ricken defending a horse-mounted Maribelle from several Plegian fighters, and Joanne rushed to his side and shot lightning into the chest of a myrmidon that got too close.

Once Maribelle, a non-combatant, was safely within the ranks of the Shepherds, Joanne and Ricken stuck by each other's side, Joanne's Thunder ripping through ground units and Ricken's Elwind tearing through flying units.

Since then, the two were inseparable. While reorganizing the tomes in the garrison, they would discuss their favorite books. (They would frequently argue over whether King Dragon was a flat character or a complex one, but both agreed that Prince Horace was a jerk.) They'd laugh at each other when sparring, with their hair windblown or sparking. Joanne would attempt to help Ricken write letters to his family--emphasis on "attempt." Joanne would trap Ricken in a headlock and ruffle his hair, and Ricken would yell at her to let him go and mess up her hair in return once freed. They agonized over their height, shared concerns over battle wounds, and protected each other in combat.

Sometimes, Ricken would bring Joanne into the forest, and the two would sit and play with the animals. They seemed to like Ricken quite a bit, but they were rather wary of Joanne. Ricken had instructed her to hold out an arm and sit still, and a bluebird that had perched on his hat hopped onto her hand.

Ricken had chuckled, keeping his voice low as to not startle the bird. "I think she likes you!"

Something about being with Ricken made Joanne calm. Seeing him happy made her happy; seeing him laugh made her laugh. She had to wonder why. Why did she connect to him so quickly? Perhaps it had something to do with her lost memories? Perhaps it had something to do with "The Mad Mage?"

She had expressed her concerns to Ricken one day, and she found him later that night asleep on top of a book of memory-related spells. She smiled and draped a blanket over his shoulders. A few nights later, when Joanne had poured over some tactics books after the assassination attempt against Emmeryn, Joanne woke up with that same blanket over her shoulders. 

Joanne couldn't remember if she had friends. Any people from her previous life had been completely forgotten. Friends, family, and enemies' faces were lost. Still, thinking about friends made Joanne's heart ache with emptiness; she could only interpret that as her being rather lonely in her past life. But why? What had she done that made her so alone? She couldn't imagine that now. The mere thought of being alone after joining the Shepherds made her skin crawl. Was she alone by choice? Or by force...?

Ricken was a very good listener. He was quiet as Joanne talked and was supportive when she stopped. She disclosed to him her worries about her memories, her fears of being a tactician, and her strange reactions to fire. In return, he told her about his collapsed family status, his own fears of constantly being seen as a child, and his feelings towards killing. It was strange, how easy it was for the two to talk to each other. It was like they had known each other forever.

Maybe they had, before Joanne lost her memory. But that didn't matter.

Joanne was glad to have a friend like Ricken.


	7. Magic

Trying to compare Joanne, Ricken, and Miriel was like trying to compare a lance, a bow, and a hammer. Just as they shared their purposes as weapons, all three Shepherds shared a love and talent for magic and learning--but that was where the similarities ended. This seemed to make them gravitate towards one another, and they would frequently find themselves discussing magical tactics, plotting them out on a map before going out to the training grounds.

To say these tactics didn't end well would be an understatement. Knocking enemies into the air with wind magic so that archers could knock them out of the air, or letting enemies fall prone for the close-combat fighters to squash like a beetle on its back had some merit, but the mix of wind and electric magic only gave them standing hair and bad times. (Though it certainly wasn't as bad as mixing fire and wind magic; Fredrick found it necessary to take their tomes away for the evening after that, on top of making them clean up the weapons tent. But that was nothing that Joanne couldn't solve with some honey cakes and a certain sweet-toothed thief.)

Miriel was stiff and meticulous, down to making sure that her glasses and hat weren't crooked. Nothing could be out of place, nothing could be slightly askew. Even a corner crease in one of her books set her on a long-winded rant full of words that not even Joanne, who practically lived in books, could decipher. But it seemed to genuinely distress Miriel when things were out of order; Joanne found herself making a more conscious effort to make sure her things in her tent were in order when Miriel would visit. Though Miriel would still touch and adjust things, it became a little less frequent when Joanne's belongings were straight.

The older woman didn't have much regard for her own well-being--far too often she would engrossed in what she was reading and neary walk off a cliff, or into a beehive, or once into the men's bathing tent. (Thankfully Cordelia intervened before disaster broke.) Even when injured on the battlefield, she much preferred to keep her injuries to herself.

She seemed confused when Joanne insisted on wrapping up a light gash on her forearm.

"But of course, Miriel. You're my comrade, and my friend. Besides, we can't keep practicing magic if you're hurt, now can we? It wouldn't be the same without you."

Joanne later found an old theory book on her desk with a note written in artful script, saying that perhaps she would "find that this piece will sufficiently stimulate your academic mind."

She smiled and tucked the book into her coat.


	8. Manners

Out of all the enemies that Joanne had to face, she didn't think that table manners would be the strongest opponent yet.

When Maribelle compared Joanne' table manners to "that of a newborn pig whose eyes are still closed," the noble took it upon herself to teach Joanne how to act like a "proper lady." Cue the onslaught of knowledge, of a straight, rigid back, of a high-held chin, of shoulders down and held back. Maribelle lectured Joanne on proper ettique when meeting a stranger while she combed through Joanne's dull, wispy hair in order to make it not look like a shedding mop. 

"By the time we're done, darling, you will be enunciating your 't's and 's's in your sleep!"

Joanne wouldn't be surprised at that point--she was dreaming about porcelain teapots and soup spoons. Her back ached from the straightening of her spine, and it felt as though her neck had been wrung out like a wet rag.

Eventually, Joanne set down her teacup and told Maribelle that, while she appreciated her enthusiasm to help, being a "lady" really isn't for her. Joanne was a tactician, meant to work together professionally with those of higher status, certainly, but Joanne wasn't going to be attending socials or marrying a rich man.

"Well, Joanne, what will you do once the war is over?"

"... I don't know. But I'll still have friends like you who can point me in the right direction." At that, Maribelle had smiled into the rim of her teacup.

When Joanne went to speak with the Exalt, she found herself with a straight, rigid back and a high-held chin. 


End file.
